The Increment Part 1

The Increment.

Chris Ryan.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To my agent Barbara Levy, editor Mark Booth, Hannah Black, Charlotte Bush and all the rest of the team at Century.

PROLOGUE

Gorazde, Bosnia, 1999.The image of the bullet flying through the air was still rattling through Matt's mind. Already, he knew it would stick with him, filed away in some dark corner. Along with all the images of all the other men he had killed.My own personal graveyard.The bas.e.m.e.nt had been dark and squalid. Water was dripping down from the ceiling, and there was a suffocating, lingering smell of human excrement rising up from the floor. Matt moved down the stairs, cautiously at first, adjusting his eyes to the darkness. A few pale cracks of light were bouncing through the coal-hole that looked up to the surface of the street. But there was not a single window, nor any electric light.The man was chained to the wall. His eyes were drooping. It looked as if he had been beaten unconscious. His black hair was thick with sweat, and there were scars running down the side of his face. The blood was still fresh on his skin.Matt levelled the Smith & Wesson Magnum Hunter pistol, held it steady in his right hand, lining it up next to his eye. To his left, he could feel Jack Matram looking down on him, his eyes tracking his every move. He squeezed his finger on the trigger.Keep the aim, he told himself. If this bullet doesn't finish him, you'll need to fire another round. If this bullet doesn't finish him, you'll need to fire another round.The bullet collided with the centre of the man's forehead. Even at a distance of ten feet, Matt could see the hardened steel skin of the bullet smas.h.i.+ng into his skull, breaking through the bone and slicing inside the brain. A trickle of red blood started to seep from the open wound, running down the front of his face. He remained completely silent as his neck gave way, his head falling forwards, and his arms rattling against the chains that still held him to the wall.'Nice shot,' said Matram softly. 'Now let's get out of here.''Who was he?' Matt wondered as they walked swiftly back to the van parked on the street outside. Matram refused to tell him. 'If you want to ask questions, join a b.l.o.o.d.y philosophy cla.s.s,' he'd snapped. 'We just pull the triggers.''How did I do, then?' asked Matt, as they arrived back at the base. A set of five tents, nestling in the hills just outside the market town of Gorazde, about fifty kilometres south of Sarajevo. The regiment had been stationed there for a month, clearing out some of the bandits and robbers that had been plaguing the United Nations forces for the past year. Their instructions were clear and simple. Find the criminals and eliminate them.'He was already dead,' said Matram, glancing up at Matt.'Dead?''One of our boys went in this morning to kiss him goodnight. I just took you along to see how you handled yourself in the field. We don't take the interns on proper missions. Too risky.' He looked up at Matt, a sly smile creasing up his lips. 'They might bottle it.''I've done ten years in the regiment,' growled Matt.'And you done about five minutes in the Increment,' answered Matram. 'n.o.body here gives a f.u.c.k about your record. You prove yourself to us from day one.'Matt buried his anger, searching deep inside himself to find some s.p.a.ce to park his fury. It was a decade now since he had first moved from the regular army to the SAS, and he'd learnt over the years how to deal with the Ruperts. You listened, you obeyed, and sometimes you tactfully suggested there might be some other way they'd like to consider. Still, as the years went by, he was finding it harder and harder to take orders from other men. And Matram looked as if he was going to be the hardest of them all. And Matram looked as if he was going to be the hardest of them all.'I don't need target practice. I already know how to shoot,' said Matt. He paused. 'Sir.'Matram stood up. He was a tall man, over six foot three, which gave him a couple of inches over Matt. His hair was sandy, dirty blond, and his jaw was square and clean. His nose was fatter than average, and his skin was pitted and rough. But his eyes were clear and blue, and beamed out of his face like a pair of headlamps. His accent retained traces of a Cornish burr, although it had been rubbed away by years working from the regiment's Herefords.h.i.+re base. 'We'll meet up with the rest of the unit in fifteen minutes. We've got another fish to catch, and this one's alive.'Matt nodded and walked back to his tent. Already, it had been a long day. It had started with Matram putting him through a gruelling series of physical exercises. Next, one of the regiment shrinks sat him down and started asking him a lot of idiotic questions about his att.i.tude to authority and death. Matt had seen right through that one. All they wanted to know was whether you'd shoot the people you were meant to shoot without asking a lot of irritating questions about who the victims were, or why you'd been sent to punch out their number. Finally, just before the fake a.s.sa.s.sination, Matram had put him through a series of practical questions. In what depth of water do you drown a man? On what floor of a building do you have to be to make sure you kill a man by dropping him from a window? What is the best type of rope for strangulation? That kind of thing.Still, reflected Matt, a posting to the Increment was always going to be tough. Even within the SAS, there was no harder a.s.signment.He hadn't asked for the test, n.o.body ever did. The Ruperts had put him up for it and, if he was being honest with himself, Matt was flattered to be asked. The Increment was a tiny unit consisting of just six men and two women, each of whom did a two-year tour of duty. It operated in the murky shadow lands between the regiment, the regular army, the intelligence agencies MI5 and MI6, and the Home and Foreign Offices. There were plenty of people who could call upon it to do their dirty work, but n.o.body who would acknowledge its existence if a job ever went wrong. Its task was a.s.sa.s.sinations. If there was someone the British state needed killed, the Increment was the unit that put its finger on the trigger.It was nasty, hard and messy work, usually undercover, usually off the books, and always without back-up. But it was also the fast track. After doing his two years, an Increment man could ask for just about any posting he wanted. And get it.'How did it go?' asked Reid.The stocky Geordie, one of Matt's oldest friends in the regiment, was lying back on his camp bed, trying to write the letter home to his fiancee he'd been composing for the last two days.'I think it was OK,' said Matt cautiously. 'I think I pa.s.sed the test.''Right,' said Cooksley, the third man in the tent. 'But do you want want to join? That's the question you need to answer.' to join? That's the question you need to answer.'Matt paused, turning the question over in his mind. He'd thought about that in the past two days, ever since he was told about the possibility of the posting. He knew it meant they rated him. His performance in tours of Ulster, the Gulf, Bosnia, and then some dirty work in the Philippines and Indonesia had impressed the Ruperts. They thought he was good, otherwise they wouldn't have recommended him. But a.s.sa.s.sinations? It was never a fair fight, and the targets were usually civilians. Matt had never felt any remorse about killing another soldier, and didn't mind if the fight was fair or not: the less fair the better, if he was being honest. But civilians? With no weapons? That was something else.'If they want me, I'll do it,' he said. 'It's two years, that's all.''Even if it means working for Matram?' said Cooksley.'How bad is he?''Think Saddam Hussein, without the easygoing charm,' said Reid.'Think Gerry Adams without the happy-go-lucky humour,' chipped in Cooksley.Matt laughed. 'No, what's he really really like?' like?'Cooksley looked up from the Nintendo GameBoy he'd bought in Hereford the day before. 'I only know what I've heard around the mess, same as you. As you know, Increment men stay away from the rest of us, so it's mostly the same old gossip. Second-hand.''But . . .''He's a hard b.a.s.t.a.r.d, obviously . . .''Obviously.''But he treats it like his own little kingdom. Nasty, s.a.d.i.s.tic little kingdom, from what I hear. Enjoys it. The killing, I mean.''One story I heard, they did a few practice rounds, just to get people in shape,' said Reid. 'Here in Bosnia. They got some of the names off the UN wanted list, then went around knocking them off. Not because anyone had ordered them to, but because they wanted to try out some new a.s.sa.s.sination techniques.'Matt took a deep breath. 'But the Increment guys do OK?''They go up the ladder, that's for sure,' said Reid. 'You want to be a Rupert, that's your way in. A couple of years pointlessly wasting lives, while f.u.c.king everything up, and generally acting like an arrogant t.o.s.s.e.r? Just the kind of training to turn you into a grade-A Rupert.'Matt laughed. They could rib him but if he was going to stay in the regiment, he'd need to start taking life seriously. He was past thirty now, and he had to move on. Or find something better to do with his life.Get promoted or get out. These are my choices.He was still mulling those options as he walked back towards Matram's tent. It was a miserable, rain-sodden spring day. The clouds were lying thick and low over the landscape, and a harsh wind was las.h.i.+ng in from the east. Matt could feel it chilling his bones, and dampening his spirits as he climbed into the jeep that Matram had prepared.They drove for an hour, mostly in silence. There were three men in the back: Abram and Unsworth in the second of their two years in the unit Harton in his first. They sat still during the journey, cleaning and checking their weapons, making sure they were working perfectly.'The target is down there,' said Matram, climbing out of the jeep and motioning the others to join them on the tarmac.Matt stood in the bl.u.s.tery wind, pulling the collar of his leather jacket up around his neck. Even out here in Bosnia, the Increment operated in civilian clothes: its jobs were all too sensitive for the regular army. His Smith & Wesson was tucked into his pocket, and a hunting knife was slipped down his trousers. In case anything went wrong, five C-5 rifles were stored in the back of the jeep.He looked down into the valley. The landscape was waterlogged and sodden, the fields ragged and uncared for. Up in the distance, he could see a small herd of goats, next to them a few chickens cl.u.s.tering around a shack of a farmhouse. But most of the fields had started to go back to the wild: the farmers had all gone away to fight, and many of them hadn't come back.'War criminal,' said Matram. 'His name is Elvedin Jamakovic. Nasty piece of work. Supposed to be a soldier, but he's mainly interested in the cigarettes and heroin smuggled across the Albanian border. He can be prosecuted, but he won't be convicted because all the locals are too scared to testify. A trial is more trouble than it's worth.' He paused, his eyes resting on Matt. 'So it's going to be a fight-back.'A fight-back.Matt was familiar with the term from his time in Ulster. The technique was simple. You went in to capture the suspect, then you made sure he resisted. As you attempted to take him, he got shot. End of story. No trial. No lengthy jail term. And no embarra.s.sing questions.Abram, Unsworth and Harton all looked back at Matram and nodded. 'Who goes in first?' said Harton.'You and Unsworth can make the initial entry,' said Matram. 'Shoot down the door, and go straight in.' He held up a picture of a man in his early thirties, with dark brown eyes and curly black hair. 'This is Jamakovic. As soon as you see him, tap him a couple of times. Make sure it's nothing too neat or clean. A couple to the leg, then one or two bullets to the chest, but avoid the heart. Let him bleed to death, so that if anyone does an autopsy later it looks as if he got killed in a struggle.' Matram laughed. 'We don't want anyone thinking we killed him on purpose.'They nodded, their expressions sullen, and as grey as the clouds sweeping down from the hills. For the Increment, Matt realised, this was just another job.The village was dirt poor. A single street, with three mud tracks running down from it, the water collecting in big, thick, muddy puddles. In total, there were about twenty houses, three of them still half built, and another two bomb-damaged. A group of small boys were playing football at the end of the street, two old car seats propped up to make the goal posts. One of them looked up at the men tramping down the street, but showed no interest. One of his mates shouted at him to get back in goal.The kids around here are used to seeing men with guns. It's just like growing up in south London.Jamakovic's house was at the end of the mud track. Maybe ten years old, it was built in the worker's paradise style of the old Yugoslav regime: a flat two-storey box, made from cheap concrete breeze blocks that had badly stained in the harsh weather. There was a big Toyota SUV on the drive, and a ten-metre satellite dish in the garden.'Ready?' whispered Matram a step away from the entrance.Harton and Unsworth both nodded.'Then go.'The door gave way easily enough. Two clean shots shattered the locks, and one high kick sent the door flying open. Harton and Unsworth swept through the hallway, their guns primed and ready to fire. Abram, Matt and Matram moved in behind them. Upstairs, they could hear shouting, and the sound of a woman screaming. The three men started running upstairs.'In here,' shouted Matram, pointing through the first door off the hallway.Matt held the Smith & Wesson tight in his right hand, and turned into the sitting room. A television, two DVDs on the floor cheap-looking pirated copies of The Mummy Returns The Mummy Returns and and Die Another Day, Die Another Day, the t.i.tles written in German and a couple of empty wine bottles. Otherwise empty. He walked through to the kitchen. Empty. The bathroom, the same. the t.i.tles written in German and a couple of empty wine bottles. Otherwise empty. He walked through to the kitchen. Empty. The bathroom, the same.The sound of gunfire echoed through the house: the explosions were m.u.f.fled by the ceiling, but Matt could still make out the screams as the bullets tore into their victims. He started walking cautiously up the stairs, holding his gun in front of him. A single light bulb was swinging on the landing, but the curtains were closed, and the rooms were shrouded in darkness.Jamakovic was lying on the bed, his mouth open and his hair matted with blood. One eye has been shot out, and another three bullet holes had punctured his lungs, sending blood spilling out across the black sheets. His girlfriend was lying next to him, clinging on to a pillow, as if it were a s.h.i.+eld. She had green eyes, a thin, pale body, and streaked blonde hair: there was a tattoo of a Ferrari just above her belly b.u.t.ton, Matt noticed. She was trying to say something, but the terror had paralysed her and the words stuck in her throat: small gasps of air were all she could struggle up to her lips.'You've done a nice job,' said Matram, smiling towards Harton. 'You can finish her if you like.''You want this one quick, sir,' said Harton, 'or should she bleed to death as well?'Matram shrugged. 'Don't care. She's yours.'Harton moved towards the girl. He was a short, stocky man, just five foot five, but built like a dog: his muscles bulged from his clothes, and every bone seemed thick and heavy. He yanked the girl by the hair, tugging her neck backwards.'You look nice,' he whispered. 'We'll make it quick.'Slowly, he put his Smith & Wesson to her right ear. She struggled, trying to break free, but Harton's thick, meaty palms were already pressing down hard on her shoulders making movement impossible. He squeezed the trigger gently, sending the bullet straight through her brain. A small cloud of dust splattered downwards on to the sheets, as the bullet shattered through her skull and hit the wall behind.That's not soldiering, thought Matt.Matram walked across the room, checked she was dead, then looked back at the men. 'Right then, who wants to get clipped?''Someone's getting clipped?' asked Matt.Matram looked across at him. 'I trust you know what the word means, Browning,' he said, 'or have you only ever played toy soldiers before?'Clipped, thought Matt, repeating the word to himself. That means one of us has to take a bullet. That means one of us has to take a bullet.'I know what it means, sir, I just don't know why it's necessary.''Christ, man, this is Bosnia, the place is under UN control and it's b.l.o.o.d.y crawling with social workers, international inspectors, CNN film crews, and half the do-gooders in Europe,' Matram snapped. 'The reason somebody gets clipped is because if none of us gets wounded, it won't look like there was a proper fight.' He raised an eyebrow. 'Somebody might think we had just a.s.sa.s.sinated the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'All five of them were standing in the room, four of them looking straight at Matram. He took a coin from his pocket, tossing it into the air. 'Heads, Harton and Unsworth. Tails, Abram and Browning.' The coin landed on the back of his palm, and Matram glanced down. 'Tails.' He tossed the coin back into the air, watching as it spun upwards. 'Heads, Abram. Tails, Browning.'The coin landed on his palm. Matram looked down at it, his eyes sparkling with amus.e.m.e.nt. He looked back up towards Matt. 'My my, tails,' he said slowly. 'Looks like you're the lucky winner. Roll up your trousers, we'll make it a nice easy flesh wound in the calf. After all, we don't want to hurt you.'Matt held his ground.He had been shot three times before: an arm wound in the Gulf, then a stomach wound in Bosnia and leg wound in the Philippines. He'd listened to old soldiers in the mess bar back in Hereford boasting about how bullet wounds didn't hurt so much once you got used to them. Good to get a couple under your belt just so you weren't scared of them any more, they would say as they downed the pints. Makes a soldier of you. Matt joined in the laughter, but he knew it was all just mess-room bravado. A bullet was a terrible shot of pain, like nothing you would ever experience again: the metal thudded into your skin, ripping it open, then burnt its way through your flesh, smas.h.i.+ng open your veins and nerves. As soon as it hit, a faint, sickly smell of charred, butchered flesh started to rise up to your nostrils, and the sudden loss of blood sent your head spinning, shutting down your vision and clouding your brain.He didn't mind getting shot at if he had to, if it was in the line of battle. But this was just public relations. But this was just public relations.'n.o.body needs to get clipped, sir.'Matram walked a pace forward, standing a yard from Matt's face. 'Are you afraid, Browning?'Matt stood rock steady. 'I just don't think it's necessary, sir. It's not soldiering. We shouldn't be ashamed of what we do.'Matram stepped another pace forward, his eyes bearing down on Matt. 'You don't know how to deliver a bullet, and you don't know how to take one either,' he said, his tone cold. 'You're not Increment material. Not now, never will be. You're a b.l.o.o.d.y coward.''If you are failing me, you're the b.l.o.o.d.y coward.''You should watch who you level that accusation at.''A coward, sir, because you don't want anyone in your unit who might question your judgement.'Matt could see Matram's muscles flexing: his skin was flushed with anger, and his eyes were full of rage. 'I'll meet you again, on a different battlefield, Browning,' he snarled. 'And then I'll teach you some b.l.o.o.d.y manners.'Matt turned round, and walked from the room. He stepped downstairs, and strode out along the muddy dirt track that led away from the village. The wind was blowing harder now, and the rain had started to fall: a fierce, cold sleet that caught up in the air and crashed straight into your face.He knew he would never be part of the Increment now. That didn't matter, he didn't want to be. If he wanted to, he could stay in the army: he'd just have to ask for a different unit.But somewhere inside Matt knew that his options were closing down. A decision that had been building up for a year or more was suddenly hardening within him. There was no getting away from it. He couldn't be an ordinary soldier for ever, and yet he couldn't turn himself into a Rupert either.It doesn't matter what happens. My time in the regiment is coming to a close. The moment to start thinking about the rest of my life has arrived.

ONE

Jack Matram ran his eyes across the two men sitting behind him in the car. Simon Clipper was the taller of the pair: six foot three, with short blond hair, green eyes, and a gentle, sloping smile. In his George jeans from Asda, and a blue cotton T-s.h.i.+rt, he blended in naturally with the neat rows of suburban houses stretching into the background. Frank Trench was shorter: about five foot eight, with jet-black hair, blue eyes, a crooked smile.They had a rugged, easy charm about them. In civilian clothes, the pair of them looked just like any two men on their way down to the pub. Perfect, decided Matram.Twelve months into their two-year tour of duty with the Increment, Matram knew he could rely on them. Clipper had eleven a.s.sa.s.sinations under his belt, Trench eight. All of them had been textbook. Lie in wait, move in quickly, dispatch the target, and come back to base without even breaking into a sweat.They would do what they were told. Killers didn't come any better trained than these two.'Barry Legg,' said Matram softly. 'That's the name of tomorrow's target.'Clipper and Trench looked down at the photo Matram had just handed each of them. Maybe thirty-five, with brown hair and a round face, he looked as unremarkable as the modern housing estate on the outskirts of Swindon where he was now living. Both men folded the picture in half, tucked it into the breast pockets of their s.h.i.+rts, then looked silently back up at Marram.'On Wednesday, his son Billy has after-school football practice,' said Matram. 'It's about a mile across open fields from this estate to the training ground. The practice finishes at seven, but Legg likes to watch the boys kicking a ball about so he's usually there a bit early. He should be pa.s.sing this precise spot sometime around six tomorrow evening.'He paused, pointing out towards the fields. 'You'll be waiting here for him. Follow him into the field, then kill him. He shouldn't give you any trouble.'Clipper nodded. 'Will he be alone?''Almost certainly,' answered Matram. 'If he isn't, you may have to take out whoever is with him as well. But I'll be watching from a distance. If I don't like the look of anything, you'll hear from me.''Guns OK?' said Trench. 'Or knives?''Guns,' said Matram. 'I want this done fast, and I want it done clean.'He glanced down at his watch. It was just before seven, and the evening light was already starting to fade. In the distance, he could see a pair of young mothers lugging their buggies home. Past them, two guys were walking towards the pub for an early-evening drink. Another quiet night in the Swindon suburbs.

The sound of gla.s.ses being clicked together and of chicken and steaks frying on the grill greeted Matt as he stepped into the back room of the Last Trumpet. He pulled the sweat-stained T-s.h.i.+rt off his back, chucking it towards the pile of dirty clothes stacked up in the washroom..A shower, and then a beer, he decided. Looks like a fine evening ahead. Looks like a fine evening ahead.The run had done him good. It had been a hot start to the summer along the southern Spanish coast. Now it was June, the temperatures were hitting the early forties. A five-mile jog along the beach had left him drained and dehydrated but also sharpened up his mind. That was what Matt liked about running. As you pushed your muscles, you also pushed your mind.In truth, there wasn't much to worry about, Matt had reflected as his feet pounded against sand that had baked bone dry in the midday sun. There was money in the bank from what he had promised Gill was absolutely the last job he would ever go on. Their debts on the Last Trumpet were all paid off, and although the bar and restaurant only ticked over financially during the winter and spring months, it should start making some real cash over the summer. The hard core of regulars, mostly Londoners who had decamped to the Costa del Sol for a few years, meant it could always break even: the tourists who tumbled off the easyJet flights into Malaga through July and August, their pockets bulging with euros, provided the profits for the year. It was a solid, dependable business, one that could be relied upon to make a good enough living to support a family. And the house they were building half a mile down the coastline was almost finished. True, Jose and his gang of Moroccans who actually seemed to do all the building work for him had slipped a bit on their deadlines. But a Deptford boy like Matt wasn't going to get worked up about a few cowboy builders. Everyone has to make a living, he told himself. And right now, he could afford a few extra expenses.I've hit the good groove. All I have to do now is hold that note.He stepped out of the shower. The water was dripping off his shoulders as he wrapped the towel around himself, and started searching around for a clean pair of chinos. Matt paused, as he felt a pair of warm lips brush against the back of his neck. He remained still, letting her tongue tickle the back of his ear. Slowly, his hands moved backwards, pulling her groin closer towards him.'Let me guess,' he said, still not turning round. 'It's that slapper from Reading I saw at the back of the bar. Fresh off the Luton flight, too many c.o.c.ktails, not enough sun cream, and now completely off her face even though it's not even sunset. We'll have to make it a quick one, babe. My fiancee's knocking about the place somewhere.'Gill gripped him tighter, her arms circling around his chest. 'And what would this fiancee of yours say,' she whispered, 'if she caught you with another girl?'Matt chuckled. 'Chop us both into little pieces. Got a bit of a temper.'Matt turned round, kissing Gill on the lips. Her fingers ran along his chest, slipping into the towel he had wrapped around his waist. The flimsy white cotton dress she was wearing flapped in the light breeze blowing in from the sea, and as Matt ran his fingers along her back, he could feel her skin softening beneath his touch. He buried his face into her neck, pulling her body tight in close to his. Her hair fell across his face, stroking his skin.No matter how many times we make love, she is always fresh and different each time. Maybe that's why I'm marrying her.With one swift movement of his hand, the strap holding the dress broke away. It dropped to the floor, and Gill stood naked before him.

The bar was livelier than Matt had expected. A Tuesday night, you didn't always get that many people. The English along the coast got hammered at the weekend, then slowly nursed themselves back into shape. It wasn't until Wednesday they started drifting back into the bars and restaurants, and it was Friday before they were ready for a long session. They might be a thousand miles from home, but their drinking habits, along with their accents, never changed.He recognised several of the faces. Bob, an ex-army guy who worked as a security consultant for some of the Russian tyc.o.o.ns who had houses along the coast. Sharing a pint with him was Keith, an old London lawyer who'd spent the first half of his working life as a prosecutor trying to extradite some of the villains who lived out in Spain, and was now spending the second half defending them from getting s.h.i.+pped back home. There were men growing comfortably old while Keith spun out appeal after appeal, and some of them were regulars here as well.We ask no questions, Matt had decided when he first opened the bar. Any man who can settle his bill is welcome at the Last Trumpet. Any man who can settle his bill is welcome at the Last Trumpet.At one of the tables looking out on to the sea, Matt could see Penelope and Suzie. The more times Suzie dropped the phrase 'late thirties' into her conversation, the more you knew she was never going to blow out that number of candles on her birthday cake again. Both women had been divorced in the last two years, and they were sharing a bottle of Chilean white. Matt didn't need to listen to know what they were talking about. They were complaining about their ex-husbands, and gossiping about any new available men who might get snapped up.Many of the villains along the Spanish coast traded in their wives every time a fresh job hauled in a new lump of cash. These two were like a pair of late-model Ford Sierras: still useful for getting around in, but there wasn't much demand now their men had all upgraded to Mondeos.But, of course, whatever their faults, Matt found it hard to dislike anyone who spent money in his bar.One man he didn't recognise. About forty, running to fat, with sandy-blond hair. He was sitting by himself, drinking a gla.s.s of port, a rare drink among the bottled beers and c.o.c.ktails with bright hats. He was wearing a crisp white linen suit, and a sea-blue cotton s.h.i.+rt, open at the neck, and with the initials GA embroidered into the cuff. He stuck out like a mackerel in a butcher's shop, Matt reflected.A copy of that day's Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal was lying open on the table, but he wasn't reading it. He was just looking out at the waves, his expression confident and peaceful. Matt could see Suzie throw a glance at the fat man. Checking out the suit and the paper. n.o.body reads the was lying open on the table, but he wasn't reading it. He was just looking out at the waves, his expression confident and peaceful. Matt could see Suzie throw a glance at the fat man. Checking out the suit and the paper. n.o.body reads the Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal for laughs. It means they have money. for laughs. It means they have money. And that's what she finds attractive in a man. And that's what she finds attractive in a man.'You think it's hot here, you should see what it's like back at home,' said Bob, handing Matt a bottle of San Miguel.He took a hit of his beer, his first of the week. Like most of his customers Matt tried to keep his head clear Sunday and Monday. Back in south London where he grew up, his dad had known lots of men who owned pubs, and he'd pa.s.sed on some advice when Matt talked about opening this place. 'n.o.body ever went broke owning a bar, that is unless they take to the drink themselves.''What's happening back in Britain?' said Matt.With the work he'd been doing, getting the bar's accounts straight, and getting the new house sorted, Matt had hardly opened a newspaper in a week. Prince Charles could have been caught in bed with Posh Spice, and Beckham could have left her for Nancy Dell'Olio for all he knew. Anyway, after checking the City pages to see how his portfolio of shares was coming along, Matt had little time for the papers. The longer he stayed out of Britain, the more trivial many of the headlines seemed. He had his own life out here. He had the sea, fresh air and money in the bank. That was all that mattered.'Heatwave,' said Bob. 'Phew, what a scorcher and all that! Thirty-nine in London yesterday apparently, the hottest day ever. Couple of tube trains broke down. Hundreds stranded for hours underground.''Record jams on the road,' said Keith, looking up from his two-day-old copy of the Daily Mail. Daily Mail. 'Everyone was heading down to the coast to try and cool off. There were tailbacks of four or five hours on the M32 down to the Kent coast. Ambulances had to come along the hard shoulder giving people bottles of water. Then some soldier somewhere lost it completely, started shooting.' 'Everyone was heading down to the coast to try and cool off. There were tailbacks of four or five hours on the M32 down to the Kent coast. Ambulances had to come along the hard shoulder giving people bottles of water. Then some soldier somewhere lost it completely, started shooting.'Bob drained his bottle of beer and ordered another one. 'The whole country's falling apart. We're better off out here. Say what you like about the Spanish, you can move about a bit on the roads.''What happened to the soldier?' asked Matt. 'Anyone we know?'Keith shook his head. 'Can't remember the details. Some guy in Shrops.h.i.+re. Engineers Corps, out a couple of years I think. Topped his wife and stepchild, then did himselfMatt gazed out into the sea. The waves were cras.h.i.+ng into the rocks in the bay that tumbled down from the foot of the restaurant. In the distance, he could see a pair of trawlers hauling in their nets, making the first catch of the night. The moon was rising in the sky, its light merging with the embers of the sun fast disappearing over the horizon. Some clouds were forming in the distance the big, thick thunderclouds that drifted across from the North African coastline all through the hot summer months. It doesn't matter what's happening at home, he reflected. We're a long way from it all here.'When's the wedding, Matt?' said Keith.'September sixth,' replied Matt. 'A bit cooler by then. Otherwise, I'm going to be sweating like a pig. Gill will get one whiff of me and run screaming from the church.''She will anyway,' said Keith, 'if she's got any sense.'Is there any truth in that? wondered Matt. The wedding was only two months away now. A full-blown affair back in south London where they had grown up together. Matt wasn't particularly looking forward to it. The service was scheduled for four, then a reception that would last all evening. Damien, Gill's brother and Matt's best friend from his childhood, would be the best man. A couple of hundred people were coming. Why so many, Matt wasn't sure. Left to him, the list wouldn't have come to more than a dozen people. But Gill wanted it that way. Second cousins, great-aunts, the girl she did a French exchange with when she was twelve; it seemed vitally important to her that they were all there on the day.After breaking up with her once, I can't make it difficult for her again.'Matt Browning.'From the tone of the voice, it was hard to tell whether it was a question or a statement. Matt looked round. It was the man in the white suit. He was looking straight at him.'Yes. Who are you?''My name is Guy Abbott. We need to talk.' The man paused, looking towards Bob and Keith. 'In private.'Matt followed him reluctantly towards the back of the restaurant. He didn't like the look of Abbott, and he could feel Penelope's and Suzie's eyes tracking them as he walked across to a table tucked into the far corner of the dining patio. A mosquito was crawling over the table. Without blinking, Matt hammered his fist down on to it.A way of saying, I wish I could do the same to you.'Nice place you got here,' said Abbott. He pulled out one of the black metal chairs and sat down. 'If I was a c.o.c.kney gangster with a taste for leathery blondes and overcooked chicken this would be the place I'd come. b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous.'Matt sat down, resting his forearms on the table. 'Who are are you?' you?''Like I told you, the name's Guy Abbott. I work for a little outfit based in Vauxhall. Big green and beige building. I think you'd recognise it if you saw it.'He fished a cigarette from his pocket, sticking it into his mouth, holding the flame of his lighter a few inches from his face. Its pale light illuminated his blotched, reddish complexion: the skin of a man who spent too much of his time behind a desk. 'You've got an account with our firm, my old fruit. And we'd like you to settle it.'Matt looked away. The clouds were drawing closer, and somewhere out at sea he could hear the rain starting to fall. The Firm was what everyone in the regiment called it, or British Intelligence to give it its proper t.i.tle. That was what he was talking about. Of that there could be no question.I always knew they would come back for me. One day. When they wanted something.More than a year had pa.s.sed since the last job had finished. Matt and four men had done a hit on al-Qaeda, organised by the Firm. They had taken thirty million dollars in gold and jewels from a boat running the gear across the Mediterranean for the terrorists. It had been worth ten million after it was fenced. But Matt came within an inch of losing his own life.We kept the money. And we kept some bad memories as well.He looked back up at Abbott. 'There's no account. I don't know what you're talking about.'Abbott smiled, revealing a set of crooked teeth. 'Why don't we get a drink? It's much more civilised to discuss these things over a gla.s.s of wine. You must have some decent stuff at the back of the bar somewhere. A nice Rioja, or something.'Show-off, thought Matt, as he walked back to the bar. He took a bottle of red from the case, and started looking for the corkscrew. He knew exactly where it was, but made a show of searching around. I need to buy myself some time decide how to handle this. I need to buy myself some time decide how to handle this.He'd always known there would be a reckoning one day. For himself, he had no regrets about what he'd done. The money was rightfully his. But that didn't mean the Firm would see it that way. The Firm wasn't like that.Matt wrenched the cork free from the bottle, grabbed two gla.s.ses and started walking back towards Abbott. A dozen different thoughts were racing through his mind. What could they want? Another mission? How could they hope to make him cooperate? They knew he wasn't going to go back to fighting. He had money in his bank account, his own business, and he was about to get married. He was his own man now.Just act like one of those helpline people you call up when your computer's broken. Whatever he wants, tell him he can't have it. Whatever he wants, tell him he can't have it.'You can have a drink,' said Matt, 'but that's as far as it goes. Whatever it is you want me to do, I'm not interested.'Abbott poured himself a gla.s.s of the wine, swilling it around, then putting it to his lips. He sipped delicately, as a woman might. 'Decent drop, this. You have to come to Spain to get a reliable Rioja, don't you think? The stuff we get at home just tastes like some Aussie muck with a few oak leaves chucked in.'Matt leant forward on the table. 'If I want a wine guide, I'll buy a book.''I know everything, Matt. I know about the raid on the boat. I know about the money that went missing. The lot. It's all back on the files at head office.'He paused, lighting up another Dunhill. 'And I don't mind. The Firm's not cross, cross, Matt. Not in the least. We like your style. You gave a good account of yourself. Al-Qaeda was relieved of a lot of money, and we cracked open their network in Britain. There were a few hiccups along the way, but then who ever heard of a job that ran smoothly. If there wasn't some trouble involved, they wouldn't call it work, would they?' Abbott took a deep drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke up into the air. 'We like you so much, we were wondering if you might be able to do something else for us.' Matt. Not in the least. We like your style. You gave a good account of yourself. Al-Qaeda was relieved of a lot of money, and we cracked open their network in Britain. There were a few hiccups along the way, but then who ever heard of a job that ran smoothly. If there wasn't some trouble involved, they wouldn't call it work, would they?' Abbott took a deep drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke up into the air. 'We like you so much, we were wondering if you might be able to do something else for us.''Thanks,' snapped Matt. 'But take a look around. I'm in a different trade now.''Ah, yes. The Jamie Oliver of the Costa del Crime. But it's not really you, is it, Matt? You're a man of action. If this was the life you wanted, you'd have signed up for Little Chef instead of the army. You'd have been a regional manager by now.' Abbott took another long, slow sip on his wine. 'But that's not what you want, is it? You know the worst thing a man can do? Some people reckon it's lying, others cowardice, but that's all nonsense. The worst thing a man can do is be untrue to himself. And that's what you're doing, Matt. You're a man of action, not a b.l.o.o.d.y chef and barman. This is no life for you.'Matt smiled. A heavier breeze was blowing in from the sea now, and the clouds were drawing closer. Soon the rain would be upon them. 'I didn't realise the Firm was moving into pop psychology. Look, whatever it is you're after, I'm not interested. I've served my country, and I've got the scars to prove it. I look after myself these days.''Don't you want to know what it is, Matt?' There was a hint of humour in Abbott's voice, as if he was teasing him. 'At least hear what the job is.'Matt leant back on his chair. There was something odd about Abbott's manner, something he couldn't quite place. He didn't have much experience of senior intelligence officers, but this was not how they usually appeared. Abbott was less smooth, and a lot more colourful. 'Let me ask you a question.''Fire away, old fruit.''What's the difference between the Firm and a wh.o.r.ehouse?''I think I've heard this one before,' said Abbott.'I'll tell you,' continued Matt, ignoring him. 'In a wh.o.r.ehouse they take their clothes off before they f.u.c.k you.' He leant forward. 'Now, I can say it in Spanish, French, German, any d.a.m.ned language you like. I'm not interested. Understood?''OK,' snapped Abbott, 'play it your way, Browning. You got an office around here? Somewhere we can access the Internet? I want to show you something.'Matt walked slowly back through the bar. It was filling up now, and he nodded to a couple of the regulars sitting down to dinner. One person said something, but Matt walked straight past. He was in no mood for talk. A feeling was already growing in the pit of his stomach: whatever Abbott had to show him, he wasn't going to like it.The office was a simple annexe to the main kitchen, at the back of the building. Matt kept a desk, plus a swivel chair and a bunch of files. A Spanish accountant came in once a week to handle the books, and Janey, the manageress, did the rest of the paperwork. The papers spread across the desk were mostly architect's drawings for the new house. The computer Matt mainly used for checking his bank accounts and sending emails. He'd played the stock markets in the past but had given that up now. Like everyone else he knew, he'd lost too much money.'This thing work?' said Abbott, pointing towards the computer.Matt nodded.'Switch it on, old fruit. You'll be wanting to check your bank accounts.'Matt could feel his blood freezing. He leant across the desk, flicking the power switch on the Tos.h.i.+ba laptop. It took a moment to boot itself into life. Matt could hear Abbott breathing behind him, but he didn't want to look round, nor did he want to catch the man's eyes.If the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's messed with my money, he'll be lucky to get out of here alive. The fish in the ocean could always use some fattening up. There's plenty of spare meat on this guy. There's plenty of spare meat on this guy.Matt clicked on to the web connection. 'How do you know I bank on the Internet?' he asked, without looking back at Abbott.'Just open it.''You've looked already, haven't you?' Now Matt turned round to face Abbott. 'You've no b.l.o.o.d.y right.''Like I said, open it,' said Abbott carefully. 'You'll discover my position gives me the right to do anything I d.a.m.n well please.'The computer was humming into life. On the screen the HSBC logo was displayed. Matt keyed in his details, then the pa.s.sword. The account came on to the screen. Matt pressed on Statement, the command disappearing down the modem. Within seconds, the total was flashed up on the monitor.Zero.He pressed Refresh on the web browser. Might as well make sure. Might as well make sure.Zero.Matt drew a deep breath. He clicked on the statement. The last two transactions were the hundred euros he had taken out of the cash machine in town three days ago, and a cheque for 650 he'd sent off three days ago to settle his accountant's bill.After that, the account just dropped from a balance of 12,287 to nothing. There was no explanation. Just an empty row of noughts.'Check the other accounts,' said Abbott.Matt remained silent. He had two other accounts at the bank, both of them accessible online: one was a deposit account where he was keeping some of his spare cash, earning a miserable couple of per cent interest a year. The other was a dealing account, where he'd put the bulk of his money into a series of rock-safe bond funds. It didn't earn much of a return, but at least it was still there. Until now.'They're empty,' said Matt, not looking away from the screen.'Empty as the jolly old Gobi Desert on a Sunday afternoon,' said Abbott. Matt could tell he was pleased with the stunt he'd just pulled. Now he was walking round to face Matt, and sitting on the edge of the desk. A small cloud of cigarette smoke was wafting above him.'Great bunch of boys, al-Qaeda. Ever since the events of September 11, my lot have more power than we know what to do with. Want an account blocked anywhere in the world, you just put in a request and they do it faster than you can say Osama bin Laden. None of that boring old stuff about proving reasonable suspicion.' Abbott leant closer into Matt's face. 'The accounts get frozen, and your bank won't even tell you. Right now, you haven't a penny in the world, old fruit.'Matt moved back in his chair. Sweat was starting to form on the back of his neck. He'd faced many different types of danger in his life, and most of them he could meet with equanimity. But he'd been born poor, and like many people who started with nothing, he feared going back to the gutter.I've done my time there, and I don't want to repeat it.'What do you want me to do?''Like I said, there's a job that needs doing. You're the right man for it.'Matt stood up. He walked across to the window. The rain had moved in further from the coast, and was spitting against the bar. Penelope and Suzie had grabbed their wine bottle and rushed inside. The few customers at the Last Trumpet were huddling for shelter around the bar.'I've been broke before, and survived,' said Matt. 'Money comes and goes. I've made it before, and can make it again. Doesn't matter how many times you block my account, you can't make me do something I don't want to.''You're not thinking straight, Matt.' Abbott nodded towards the window. 'It's not just about some money in an account. With just one phone call I can have you charged with murder. Oh, and that pretty little fiancee of yours. Gill. I reckon she must be an accessory to murder as well. At least.'Matt stepped forward, the veins in his face bulging. 'I risked my life for my country on that job,' he said, his voice low, determined. 'I should have got a b.l.o.o.d.y medal. But I just wanted to be left alone to get on with the rest of my life.'Abbott nodded, a smile creasing up his lips. 'Should have asked for the medal, old fruit,' he replied. 'Medals we can do. Glory and honour? That can all be arranged. We might even run up a statue if you ask nicely enough. But leaving people alone?' He shook his head. 'No, we can't do that.'A fresh cigarette jabbed into his mouth, Abbott moved towards the open door. He pulled the collar of his linen jacket up around his neck to protect him from the rain, then looked back at Matt. 'So here's the deal. You be a good boy and do what we ask you to do. Then we'll unfreeze your accounts, and we'll make sure you get a pardon for any connection you might have had with any unpleasantness. Then again, you can turn me down. You're a free man, and I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. But your money will remain frozen, you'll be a penniless bankrupt, and you and Gill will be charged with murder.' He stepped out into the rain. 'Think it over, and let me know tomorrow.'Matt turned round, sitting back down at the desk. Taking the mouse in his right hand, he clicked open his account again. Still zero. He clicked on to the other accounts. Zero.It doesn't matter how many times you look at it. The number's always the same.His fist smashed down on the side of the desk. The computer shuddered as the force of the blow ricocheted through the machine, and a pair of folders fell to the floor. He wanted to run after Abbott, and beat some respect back into him. Abbott talked tough, but his flesh looked weak and flabby: a few hard blows would level up the score.Get a grip, Matt commanded himself. Sure, you could probably kill the jerk with a pair of well-placed bare-knuckle jabs just below the temple. He'd seen it done, and he'd have no qualms about taking Abbott down. But it would make no difference. One Abbott would be followed by another, then another. The Firm had an endless supply of them.No. If I'm going to fight my way out of this comer, I have to do it with my mind, not just my knuckles.He stood up, and walked out of the office. Somewhere near the bar he could hear Gill calling for him, but he ignored her. Kicking away his shoes, he took the s.h.i.+rt from his back. Dressed only in his shorts, he jumped down the small, rocky pathway that led down from the restaurant to the sea.The rain was beating fast against the beach as Matt climbed down. He could feel the tepid water seeping into his skin. Maybe the storm will come down hard, and blow that b.a.s.t.a.r.d away. Maybe the storm will come down hard, and blow that b.a.s.t.a.r.d away.

TWO

Matram placed the binoculars back in the glove compartment of his Lexus RX300. A slow smile drifted across his face as he put the windows back up and turned on the air conditioning. So far the mission was playing out perfectly.The murder was as beautifully engineered as the car he was sitting in.It was just after six and the streets on the estate were empty. He had just watched Barry Legg walk out of his house and turn down the quiet road that stretched down past the local pub. It was a hot, steamy night they were all hot and steamy this summer and Legg looked slightly ridiculous wearing just shorts, dock shoes and a Liverpool FC football s.h.i.+rt: Steven Gerrard's, unless Matram was mistaken. Legg was alone, and apart from nodding to one man on the other side of the street, n.o.body seemed to have pa.s.sed him on the way.Matram checked his watch. Ten past six. Legg would be a few minutes early to watch his son.Except he wasn't ever going to arrive.'Target approaching,' he said into the hands-free mouthpiece he had hooked around his neck. 'Ready?''Affirmative,' replied Clipper.The line was kept open. Matram watched as Legg rounded the corner. His pace was quickening as he stepped down from the main road on to the track that led towards the football pitches. Trench and Clipper started walking alongside him, Trench walking slightly ahead. As Matram watched them turn into the field, he took the car forward, turning the corner so he could keep them in sight. Both men were just ten yards away, out of sight of the houses.'We're looking for the Fox & Hare,' he heard Trench say. 'Do you know which way?'His tone was firm, noted Matram. Enough to stop a man and distract his attention, but not loud enough to provoke any suspicion. Good training. Good training.'You've pa.s.sed it,' said Legg. 'A hundred yards back down the lane. Turn right. You can't miss it.'Matram rolled up his binoculars towards his eyes, and adjusted the focus. Legg was speaking to Trench, but his eyes were looking up towards Clipper. The man was standing with his legs a yard apart. His shoulders were rock steady, and his right arm twisted slightly forwards.Legg's a military man, reflected Matram. Even a couple of years out of the army, he still recognised the position a man took up when he was about to shoot somebody.'I've seen you before . . .' said Legg.'Stand still,' barked Trench, pulling the Smith & Wesson Magnum Hunter pistol free from his jacket.The Hunter had a ten-and-a-half-inch barrel, much longer than any normal pistol, giving the bullet extra velocity and impact: perfect for a job like this where speed and accuracy were a lot more important than trying to conceal a bulky weapon.'. . . across the water,' said Legg.Clipper also pulled his gun from his jacket. He fired first, then Trench, both men delivering two rounds of fire. Four bullets ripped into Legg's body, two blasting through his brain, two severing open his heart. He crumpled to the ground, dead.Through his binoculars now, Marram watched the small trickle of blood seep out into pathway.Trench walked towards the corpse. From his pocket, he took a packet of Pampers baby wipes, and cleaned the traces of blood away from the gra.s.s. He stowed the wipe back in his pocket, hoisted the corpse over his shoulder, then walked back towards the car. Matram was waiting for them, the engine already running, and the body was laid in the back of the vehicle.Matram gunned up the Lexus, and pulled away. By nightfall, the body would have been safely disposed of. His wife would have called the local police in a panic, but it would be a couple of days at least before they showed any interest in what had happened to him. Guys disappeared all the time, and usually they turned up a few days later with a terrible hangover; if the police started chasing all of them they wouldn't have any time to fill in forms.Matram smiled to himself. By then, all traces of the execution would have been eliminated. The operation was a perfect ten.One more off the list.

'What's got into you?' asked Gill.The sentence was delivered in the same tone Matt had heard Gill use at the Dandelion nursery school in Puerto Ba.n.u.s where she worked every morning. Strict, insistent and determined: it worked on the three-year-olds, and it worked on Matt as well.'You've been skulking in your kennel all day.'A gla.s.s of Nestle iced tea was sitting in front of him on the terrace of the Last Trumpet, but Matt had hardly touched it. The heatwave that had covered northern Europe over the past two weeks seemed finally to have hit southern Spain. The storms of the night had now blown through to the African coastline, leaving the skies completely clear. It was now almost noon, and the sun was starting to hit its peak. Sweat was forming on his brow, but it wasn't the weather that was responsible.'I'm in trouble.'He watched as her eyes sank. He'd seen that look before. A sudden resignation came over her, followed by a flash of anger. 'What is it?'She sat down opposite him, her hands folded together, and her right index finger playing nervously with the single diamond placed at the centre of her gold engagement ring.'What is it, Matt?' she repeated, her tone more insistent now.'It's the Firm,' Matt answered. 'They want me to do a job.''No, Matt. You're through with all of that. We agreed.'Matt paused. How should I tell her? He turned the question over in his mind, remaining silent, examining it from every angle. She's ent.i.tled to know the truth: he'd never believed in keeping any secrets from Gill, and anyway she'd always seen through him. But Abbott had threatened her with arrest. And there was no doubting his retaliation would be swift and vicious. The Firm didn't like being turned down.I can't burden her with that. And whatever happens, my first duty is to protect her.'It was that man in the bar last night,' persisted Gill. 'The one in the white suit.''His name's Guy Abbott. He's an officer with the Firm.''What does he want with you?''There's a job that needs doing. They reckon I'm the right man for it.''You're through with that, Matt,' repeated Gill. 'We agreed. No more missions. We're getting married, maybe having kids.' She paused, a trace of moisture already visible in her eyes. 'Making a life together.'She's not going to like this.'I know,' Matt started, his voice steely and grave. 'But there are debts, and now they're getting called in. One job, then he says the slate will be clean.'Gill shook her head. 'No. We have plenty of money. We don't need them. Tell them to go screw themselves.''I already did.' Matt reached out to take Gill's hand. She drew it away. 'They've frozen all my accounts. We're broke.''They can't do that,' snapped Gill.'They can, and they have.'Gill turned away. 'We don't need the money. We're making money on the restaurant, I have my salary from Dandelion. We don't need to finish the house, it doesn't matter.' She turned to look at him again. The moisture in her eyes had turned into a tear now. 'We can sleep on the beach. So long as we have each other, that's what counts.'I have to tell her, Matt decided. There's no way she'll accept anything but the truth. There's no way she'll accept anything but the truth.'It's not just the money. That's the carrot. I do the job and I get our money back.''What's the stick?''They'll press charges,' said Matt. 'For murder.'Gill paused. With her left hand she reached up to wipe away the tear trickling down the side of her cheek. 'It wasn't murder. Fight it. You have to prove your innocence.' She leant forward. 'We can't live like this. There'll be this job, then another one, and another one. You'll be working for the b.l.o.o.d.y SAS for ever. Until they slam the lid down on your coffin, drape a Union Jack over it, and give me a medal to pin up on the wall. I won't do it, Matt. We fight them here and now.''Don't be ridiculous,' snapped Matt. He could feel the temper rising within him, a snarling knot of anger that started in his stomach and worked its way up to his throat. 'It's not just about me. They'll arrest both of us. Don't you understand, they'll break us.' He stood up. 'Just one job. I'll go to London, see what it is, and I'll get guarantees that it's just this once. If it's too dangerous, I'll tell them to get stuffed.'Gill turned away. Her cheeks were reddening, and she pushed her hair out of her face. 'I tell you, you go to London, and it's over between us.''Christ, Gill,' shouted Matt. 'Do you have any idea what they'll do to us? They'll throw us in jail, then arrange one of those convenient accidents so we never get out again. Let's play them along, and see if we can get out of this mess with our freedom, and our money still in the bank.'Gill took two steps back, her expression a mixture of fear and defiance. 'You haven't changed, Matt,' she said softly. 'I thought I could settle you down, but I see now that I can't. There's always another job, another mission, another adventure. I thought you cared enough for me to give all of that up, but I was wrong. I don't think you can ever have a proper relations.h.i.+p, Matt. Because you'll never know how to put someone else first.'She turned round, and started walking towards the house. 'I wanted to be your wife, Matt, not your widow. Now I don't want to be either.'

'So what do you serve the gangster boys for lunch around here, old fruit?' Abbott sat down at the table, glancing through the menu. Matt sat down opposite him, his expression sullen.'I was hoping for a slice of the old horse's head.' Abbott laughed to himself, and started taking off his jacket. 'But I suppose I'll have to settle for the club sandwich, and a gla.s.s of rose. Don't think I can face the sausage and mash in this heat. But good to see you have all the local specialities.''We serve what our customers want,' said Matt irritably.Abbott wiped his brow with his handkerchief. It looked as if the back of his neck, the only bit of skin he left exposed to the sun, was starting to burn. 'So, you want your money back?''Tell me the job, and I'll tell you the answer.'Abbott took a single sheet of paper from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and handed it across to Matt. 'I've booked you on to the five past ten BA flight back to London tomorrow morning. You can meet me for lunch at my club the day afterwards. I'll tell you then.'Matt nodded. 'Which club?''The Oxford & Cambridge, on the Mall,' said Abbott, taking a sip from the gla.s.s of rose that had just been placed on his table. 'I'm sure you know it.'

THREE

The note felt flimsy in Matt's hands. A single sheet of blue writing paper, covered in a few lines of her familiar, rounded handwriting. Matt read it once, and was about to toss it towards the bin when he paused and read it again.Dear Matt, Go to London if you want to. I know you are doing what you think is right, but I also have to do what I think is right. I refuse to spend the rest of my life lying in bed alone at night terrified of what dangers you might be facing. If I'm going to lose you, I'd rather lose you now than later.I'm breaking off the engagement, for the last and final time. Don't try to contact me.Good luck.Love, Gill.Matt looked over the apartment. It was the same bachelor pad he'd had on leaving the SAS three years ago. Although he had hardly noticed it happening, the place had been girled up: some small beige cus.h.i.+ons seemed to be arranged across the sofa; on top of the TV there were pictures of Gill and him together; the bathroom had acquired a new mat; and the hi-fi seemed to have been pushed back into a corner where you could hardly find it.He put the letter into the magazine rack something else that seemed to have turned up that Matt couldn't recall buying and stepped outside. He still had an hour or so, before he had to be at the airport, and he wanted to check into the bar first. Maybe Gill would be there.Even though it was just after eight in the morning, the sun was already rising in a smooth arc across the clear blue skies. Matt started walking the five hundred yards from the apartment block to the bar. He was carrying a small case with the few items of clothing he planned to take to London.She'll be back, he told himself. We've argued before, split up before, and patched things up before. She flares up like a sergeant major, but it blows over soon enough. With any luck, the Firm will have a nice simple job, and we'll be back together in a couple of weeks.Give her a few days and she'll cool off.'Seen Gill?' he said to Janey as he stepped into the bar.The manageress was a woman in her early forties, with streaked blonde hair, and a winning smile. Janey had run one of the best pubs in Chingford before splitting up with her husband, and moving out to the sun. There was very little she didn't know about running a bar. Matt relied on her completely.'No. Trouble?'Matt shook his head. 'Just wondering where she's got to.''Sorry. Someone was calling for you, though,' continued Janey, closing up the ledger where she had been recording last night's takings. 'Some lady who said she was calling on behalf of Sandy Blackman. Said it was urgent.'Sandy? Matt turned the thought over in his mind.In the Parachute Regiment, Sandy's husband, Ken Blackman, had been his closest friend. Matt had served alongside him for five years, before he'd left to join the SAS. Ken had done a couple more years in the forces before handing in his uniform. Then he'd gone back to Derby where he was born, married his girlfriend Sandy and settled down. He'd been working as a truck driver, mostly hauling stuff up and down the Ml for Tesco. A couple of times he'd done long cross-Continent trips out to Spain, and about nine months ago he'd spent a night at the Last Trumpet. It had been a great session. About ten beers each, finished off with a bottle of port and a rough North African cigar. For a while they'd both been back in a windy, desolate barracks in Aldershot, wondering what they'd signed up for.Whatever happens to you in life, nothing compares to the frozen, hungry, exhausted misery of your first few weeks in the army. The bonds you make in those few weeks are among the strongest of your life.Last time he'd seen Sandy had been three years ago. At the christening of their first daughter, Jade. She'd be up and walking around by now, and so would the next one, Callum.Why wouldn't Ken be calling himself?He punched the numbers into the phone, looking out to sea as he waited for it to be answered. A man picked up the phone. A man he didn't recognise.'Tell Sandy it's Matt on the phone,' he said. 'Matt Browning.''Haven't you heard what happened?'Matt hesitated. He knew those words, he'd heard them often enough in the army.'Look it up on the Derby Evening Telegraph Derby Evening Telegraph website,' the man said. website,' the man said.The phone went dead. Matt checked his watch. Half an hour until he needed to be at the airport. He walked to the back office and fired up his computer. It took a few seconds on Google to find the site for the local paper. He clicked on the link, and watched as the front page of last night's paper downloaded itself. A one per cent hike in council tax, that was the day's news in Derby. That and the threat of some more redundancies at Rolls-Royce.Maybe it was a few days ago? A crash, a fight? What could Ken possibly do to get himself in the paper? What could Ken possibly do to get himself in the paper?He flicked back a couple of days. The announcement of a new ring road, some revelations about the b